32
The weeks that followed were methodical and busy rather than dramatically chaotic.
The purple tint on the skin of the people with genetic potential to be wargs faded first. Slowly, unevenly, skin tones returning to normal over days as the altered spores degraded exactly as Erik had intended. With the color gone came the real work done quietly and individually thus being time-consuming.
Nearly one hundred and fifty people carried the marker.
It was far more than Erik had expected.
From the stories he had studied in another life, skinchangers were vanishingly rare. One man in a thousand, the old accounts claimed, might be born with the gift. And among skinchangers, only one in a thousand might ever become something more, a greenseer, a mind that could touch trees and time alike.
Weirstad's numbers did not match the legends.
At first, he suspected error. Sampling bias. Environmental influence. Or perhaps the North had always carried more dormant potential than the maesters of the south ever recorded.
But the results held when he checked them.
The city's population, drawn from Free Folk, northern settlers, refugees, and distant migrants, had created a genetic convergence that the old world had never catalogued. Isolation, selection pressure, and generations of survival beyond the Wall had quietly preserved traits that more "civilized" regions had shunned and exterminated out of fear.
Chance had shaped them.
Erik intended to refine them.
He did not seek greenseers for now. That path was uncertain, dangerous, and poorly understood even in legend. If some were found , he'd find a way to make them useful.
But skinchangers were different. They were measurable, improvable, and, with care, scalable.
The marker he had found was only the beginning.
By strengthening weak expressions, stabilizing inheritance, and removing dormant inhibitors, he ensured that Weirstad would not rely on luck or myth. Over generations, the ratio would shift. Not one in a thousand, but one in a hundred. Then perhaps one in ten, if society could bear the weight of that power.
He made no grand announcements about it.
Ignorance of power that multiplied too quickly drew fear. Time would cure them of said ignorance so they would not fear what would come to understand and appreciate.
Records were kept. Lineages mapped. Training protocols refined. What had once been folklore became data. What had once been destiny became policy.
If the old world had relied on chance to produce legends, Weirstad would rely on intention to produce guardians.
Some barely registered at all, their potential no more than a faint echo. Others showed strength that surprised even Korb and Jakob. Between those extremes lay every possible variation, and each case had to be examined on its own terms. There were no shortcuts. No mass solutions.
Erik met with them one by one.
For those whose potential was present but weak, he intervened carefully. Those altered would not only be capable wargs themselves, but would pass on stronger, more reliable potential to their children.
The city was not building a generation.
It was shaping a lineage.
Older candidates required different work. Age dulled learning speed, adaptability, and endurance, fatal limitations for warging. Erik reversed what time had taken just enough so they had clearer senses, steadier cognition, bodies capable of strain again. Not youth restored, but usefulness renewed. Elders who had once assumed themselves irrelevant found they could still serve, still learn, still matter.
Space quickly became the next constraint.
The existing school was expanded outward and downward, classrooms widened, practice chambers reinforced, and quiet rooms set aside for failures and recovery. What emerged was no longer just a school—it was an academy.
The Warg Academy.
Attendance was mandatory for those with the potential.
Not as punishment, but as protection. Untrained wargs were dangers to themselves and others. Within the academy, they learned discipline before power, control before reach. Bonding exercises came slowly, always supervised. No one was permitted to reach for a living mind until they understood the weight of doing so.
And warging was not the only subject.
Every student learned to read and write. To record observations. To send clear reports. A warg who could not communicate was half-blind, no matter how far their senses traveled. Literacy turned instinct into intelligence, sensation into strategy.
Children sat beside adults. Farmers beside sailors. The young learned quickly. The old learned carefully. None were exempt.
By the end of the month, Weirstad had something it had never possessed before, not merely wargs, but an institution. A system that could teach, correct, and endure beyond any single person.
And for the first time, the gift that had once belonged to chance now belonged to design.
Alongside the academy, another structure rose, quieter but no less important.
A menagerie.
It was built deliberately close, separated only by a controlled corridor and reinforced gates, so that training could move from theory to practice without unnecessary risk. The purpose was never spectacle. Every enclosure served a function.
Animals useful for warging were gathered carefully and humanely, with attention paid to temperament as much as strength. Snow bears occupied the largest pens, their space wide and reinforced, used only by advanced guardians under supervision. Shadowcats were kept in shaded stone runs, their intelligence and stealth prized for reconnaissance. Wolves formed the backbone of land-based training, familiar, social, and adaptable.
Above, enclosed aviaries housed hawks, eagles, and ravens. Aerial warging was taught early, not for combat, but for awareness. Height revealed patterns. Patterns revealed intent. Even a single flight could uncover threats weeks before they reached the city.
Smaller enclosures held ferrets and other burrowing animals, invaluable for navigating tight spaces, walls, and underground routes. Larger pens were reserved for giant elk and other herd beasts, used to teach endurance, shared awareness, and calm control over immense strength. A few exotic acquisitions, including massive horned rhinos obtained through trade, were kept isolated and rarely used, their purpose strictly instructional for those capable of handling overwhelming physical presence without losing themselves.
Every animal was treated as a partner, not a tool.
Students were taught that warging was not possession, but alignment. The animal's instincts were not obstacles to overcome, but currents to move with. Failure to respect that principle resulted in immediate removal from practical training.
The menagerie also served another purpose.
It reminded the guardians that their gift was bounded by life. Every bond carried responsibility, not only to the city, but to the creatures that lent them sight, strength, or speed. Injury, exhaustion, or abuse of an animal was treated as a failure of character, not skill.
Together, the academy and the menagerie formed a complete system. Knowledge, discipline, and controlled experience. No shortcuts. No legends born prematurely.
Weirstad was not creating monsters or mystics.
It was creating guardians who understood exactly what it meant to see through another's eyes, and why such sight must never be taken lightly.
The numbers posed a problem of their own.
Weirstad was not ready to train nearly one hundred and fifty potential wargs at once. Not with the depth of discipline Erik demanded, and not without risking uncontrolled power spreading faster than understanding. The academy could scale, but not instantly, and mistakes in this field would not be theoretical.
Erik wanted quality as the Wargs were a precious and rare resource.
So, they chose to select.
Every candidate was tested, observed, and evaluated. Strength of connection, emotional stability, discipline, ability to learn, and willingness to serve were all weighed. Raw power mattered, but temperament mattered more. A reckless mind inside another creature was a liability, not an asset.
In the end, fifty were chosen.
The first cohort.
They would receive focused, intensive training for one to two years. When they emerged, they would not only serve, but teach. The next wave would be trained by those who had already walked the path under strict guidance, allowing the system to grow without collapsing under its own ambition.
Erik intended to be personally involved.
These were not merely students. They were to be his eyes and ears across forest, tundra, mountain, and sea. If the need arose, they would be more than watchers. They would be instruments that moved unseen.
He did not romanticize that.
He taught them things no one else in Weirstad knew. This that would make them extremely proficient and improve their survival chances out in the world
How to observe without being seen. How to move through wilderness without leaving sign. How to survive alone for weeks with minimal supplies. How to remain calm when separated from their bodies and how to return without panic. How to resist coercion, how to compartmentalize secrets, and how to report with precision rather than rumor. He taught them poisons and ways to administer them stealthily. He taught them various mental techniques so they wouldn't take on animal instincts and remain themselves and in control.
They learned discipline before daring, restraint before reach.
He taught them that information was often more valuable than force, and silence more powerful than action. That the best guardian was the one no one ever noticed, and the best victory was the one that never required a battle.
Korb and Stigr handled physical and martial discipline. Jakob taught control and mental grounding. Helga taught ethics, duty, and spiritual framing.
Erik taught purpose.
He never told them they were weapons.
He told them they were responsibilities given form.
But in private, as he reviewed their reports and watched them practice, he knew exactly what he was building.
A network of minds that could see beyond walls, beyond oceans, beyond borders. A system that could detect threats before they formed and influence events without banners or armies.
Weirstad would not be blind to world's events.
And if the world beyond ever turned hostile, his guardians would already be there, watching, listening, and ready to act long before anyone realized they had been seen. They would be his eyes, his ears and if need be his daggers in the dark.
To improve the perspective of the free folk about wargs, Helga carried the same message into the temple halls and open squares, shaping it for ears that listened through faith rather than strategy.
She spoke often to the guardians directly, but just as often to the people who watched them.
"Our high and privileged calling," she preached, her voice steady beneath the boughs of the Tree, "is to do the will of The Old Gods in the power of The Old Gods for the glory of The Old Gods."
She made certain the words were not mistaken for praise.
"This calling is not comfort," she told them. "It is not safety. Privilege does not mean ease. It means burden accepted willingly."
To the wargs, she explained that their gift was not proof of favor, but proof of trust. Power was given because responsibility was expected. To refuse to serve would not be sin, but to hide from duty would be.
On other days, when fear or doubt rose among the newly revealed guardians, Helga spoke more fiercely.
"The Old Gods desires to show Their power through your storm," she proclaimed. "Not by removing it. Not by sparing you from it. But by standing with you inside it."
She explained that wargs would be sent where others could not go. They would see what others were spared from seeing. They would feel danger before it reached the walls. That weight was not cruelty, but purpose. The storm was where vigilance mattered most.
"To be chosen," she said, "is not to be lifted above your people. It is to be placed in front of them."
Her sermons stripped away the last remnants of superstition. Wargs were no longer figures of unease or whispered suspicion. They became symbols of watchfulness and restraint. The people began to understand that the guardians paid for their privilege in effort, danger, and silence.
Erik listened often from the edges of the crowd.
Helga was doing what law and reward alone could not. She was anchoring the role of the guardians in conscience. Where he set structure, she set meaning. Where he demanded discipline, she demanded humility.
Together, the message settled into Weirstad's bones.
To be a warg was an honor. To be a guardian was a duty. To fail was human. To refuse this responsibility was shameful and selfish.
In time, the stigma did not merely fade. It inverted.
Children dreamed not of hiding their gift, but of being worthy of it. Adults who discovered their potential stepped forward instead of shrinking back. Social pressure no longer pushed wargs to the margins. It pushed them toward service.
And so, quietly and deliberately, Weirstad ensured that in the years to come, its most dangerous gifts would also be its most reliable protectors.
Not feared. But trusted. Not shunned. But honored.
--------
The forge district of Weirstad never slept.
Even in winter, heat shimmered above the furnaces, and the rhythmic hammering echoed through the stone corridors like a slow, steady heartbeat. The expanded complex sprawled now—multiple forges, bellows driven by animals, casting pits and neat rows of anvils where apprentices practiced under sharp-eyed masters.
Erik walked through it with hands clasped behind his back, boots crunching on slag and gravel. Sparks leapt in brief golden arcs as hammers struck glowing metal.
Kate walked beside him, soot smudged on her cheek, hair tied back with a leather cord. Her stride was confident, posture straight despite the long hours. On her other side was the newly rejuvenated Lotho, broad-shouldered, hands massive and scarred, moving with the quiet, heavy presence of a man who had shaped metal and war alike.
Erik stopped beside a line of new crucible furnaces.
"These are excellent," he said, examining the brickwork and airflow vents. "Fuel efficiency is up, slag waste is down, and your output has doubled without sacrificing quality."
Kate allowed herself a brief smile. "The apprentices are learning faster than I expected. And your new charcoal mix burns cleaner. Less choking smoke."
Lotho rumbled in agreement, resting his hands on the haft of a hammer like it was a staff. "A good forge is like a good farm," he said slowly, voice deep and calm. "If you tend it right, it gives back more than you ask."
"It's definitely better for working women" Kate shot her father a look. "It's got men who don't treat women like decorative furniture."
Lotho raised a hand defensively. "I never said that."
"You didn't have to," she replied, dryly.
Erik watched their exchange with faint amusement. "How are you settling in, Lotho?"
The older man considered the question seriously, gaze drifting over the surrounding
"I don't like the cold," he admitted. "And."
"I don't like the cold," he admitted after a moment. "It gets into the bones. And the food…" He paused, searching for polite words. "the food is strange. Too many herbs and meat, too many things mixed together. Give me a simple fish stew and bread, and I'm happy. Too much meat. Not enough bread and fish."
Kate snorted. "You've eaten three loaves with fish stew today, Father."
"That is not an answer," Kate said.
"It is an honest one," Lotho replied, then shrugged. "But everything else is better. The forges are clean. The tools are good. The apprentices listen. And no one tells me I should slow down because I've got grey in my beard thanks to your rejuvenation magic"
"No bribes to keep a forge license. No one telling my daughter what she can or cannot make."
He looked at Kate, eyes thoughtful rather than sentimental.
"That part is better."
Erik nodded. "We prefer competence over tradition here."
Kate folded her arms, thoughtful. "It's more than that. Weirstad is… fair. I don't have to fight twice as hard just to be taken seriously. Here, being a woman is just another fact, not a limitation. For someone who wants a career in craftsmanship, leadership, engineering, this city is better than any place I've seen."
Kate met Erik's gaze, voice firm. "Weirstad is better for women who want to build something. No one questions me because I'm a woman here. They question me because I'm young. That I can fix."
A hammer rang loudly as a billet was quenched, steam bursting upward like a dragon's breath.
"In Braavos," she continued, "I'd have had to marry into a guild family or work under a man who took credit for everything. Here, I run the forges. People listen. People obey. It's… refreshing."
Lotho gave a slow nod. "She was born to lead a forge. The world just needed catching up."
Lotho studied her for a moment, his expression softening. "Besides, You were always stubborn enough to make it anywhere."
"Stubborn isn't the same as welcome," she replied quietly. "and I got my stubbornness from you"
They chuckled good-naturedly.
Erik watched the apprentices moving in coordinated rhythm, metal glowing, water hissing, leather bellows pumping.
"That is the idea," he said quietly. "A place where skill matters more than birth. Where talent is not wasted on tradition."
Kate rested a hand on the railing overlooking the casting pits. "Then we'll make sure the metal matches the vision."
Lotho gripped his hammer again, knuckles white.
"And if the world doesn't like it," he added calmly, "they'll find out what Weirstad steel feels like."
Erik allowed himself a faint smile as the forge roared around them.
Lotho studied Erik for a long moment, eyes steady and thoughtful, like he was weighing iron on a scale.
"You're building more than a city," he said. "You're changing how people think."
Erik met his gaze without flinching.
"Yes."
For a while, only the forge spoke, hammers ringing, bellows breathing, apprentices shouting measurements.
Then Lotho shifted his weight, massive hands clasped together as if he were holding an invisible hammer.
"I can help you make Weirstad better."
Erik turned fully toward him. "How?"
Lotho hesitated. For a man who could face molten metal without blinking, speaking about himself clearly took more effort.
"Before I was a blacksmith," he said slowly, "I was a miner."
Kate looked up sharply. She had heard fragments of this before, but never in such plain words.
"A slave miner," Lotho continued, voice low and even. "From childhood. Youth. Most of my life. Digging in the dark for men who never cared if we lived or died. Iron, copper, silver. I learned the stone. Learned how veins twist, how rock lies, how the earth hides its bones."
His eyes drifted to the furnace walls, as if seeing something far deeper than brick and mortar.
"When I escaped and reached Braavos, I swore I'd never go underground again. But the knowledge of the Erth stayed. Stone speaks, if you know how to listen."
Erik's gaze sharpened with interest. "You believe there is iron here."
"There is always iron," Lotho said. "Mountains don't rise without it. Valleys don't settle without it.Some of it is easy to reach, most of it is not. You just need someone who knows where to look, and where not to waste time."
Kate crossed her arms, thoughtful. "Local ore would change everything."
Lotho nodded once. "No more paying merchants. No more begging cities that would rather see you weak. You make your own iron, your own steel. Cheaper tools. More plows. More weapons. A city that can build itself without asking permission."
He met Erik's eyes again, and for a moment the quiet forge master looked like the boy who had once dreamed of freedom under the earth.
"I'll go with your scouts. I'll teach them what I know. We'll find veins. Mark them. You can decide when and how to dig."
Erik was silent for several breaths. This was exactly the kind of leverage he had wanted but could not manufacture with knowledge alone. You could teach metallurgy from books. You could not teach the intuition of a man who had lived inside the bones of the world.
"I wanted this," Erik admitted quietly. "But I had no way to make it happen."
Lotho's lips twitched to almost a smile.
"Now you do."
Erik extended his hand. "You'll have scouts, supplies, and priority. Do not take unnecessary risks. I'd prefer my master blacksmith alive."
Lotho clasped Erik's forearm with a grip like iron bands.
"I survived chains and caves. I can survive your snow."
Kate shook her head, half exasperated, half proud. "You have been complaining about the cold since we arrived and now you want to go out there in the cold"
Lotho ignored her. "I spent my whole life in one city after I escaped. Same docks. Same forges. Same streets." He looked past the workshop doors toward the white hills beyond. "You gave me youth again. I don't want to spend it under roofs."
Erik studied him, seeing something rare in a man who had known both slavery and stability.
"You want to explore."
Lotho nodded once. "I want to see the world outside the cities."
The forge roared, sparks bursting like stars. Erik felt a strange satisfaction—not from conquest, not from magic, but from giving a man the freedom to choose what he did with his second life.
"Then go," Erik said. "Find me the bones of this land."
Lotho bowed his head slightly, a gesture of respect rather than submission.
"And when Weirstad stands on its own iron," he said, "I'll know I helped build it."
Kate watched her father walk away toward the edge of the forge complex, where snow met smoke and the wild hills waited.
"He always wanted more than anvils and walls," she said quietly.
Erik followed Lotho with his eyes.
"Then Weirstad will give him more than walls."
-------
Six months.
That was how long it took before Erik could finally tear himself away from Weirstad.
His previous departure had left a mountain of unresolved matters. Projects half-designed, workshops awaiting oversight, administrative reforms only sketched in ink and theory. And then came the potential wargs, each one a walking strategic revolution that demanded infrastructure, training, secrecy protocols, and political groundwork. The city had grown used to him being everywhere at once, and he had encouraged that expectation until it had trapped him in his own web of responsibility.
He had refused to leave until every major initiative was stable without his direct hand.
And until the ships were perfect.
The two vessels bound for White Harbor sat heavy in the harbor, their holds packed to the beams with the finest goods Weirstad could offer. Steel tools, woolen textiles woven with new patterns and dyes, sealed crates of preserved foods that could survive months without spoilage, pearl jewelry, carbon fiber resin weapons and armor and rare animal pelts. He wanted White Harbor's lord and merchants to see, immediately and undeniably, that Weirstad was not a curiosity or an upstart and that it was a rising power with tangible, practical miracles.
A first impression was a weapon. He intended to strike hard.
The morning of his departure was cold, the wind off the sea biting and metallic. Erik stood on the pier, hands clasped behind his back, coat pulled tight, eyes moving over the ships one last time.
Then he heard the footsteps.
"You're really going this time, then."
He turned to see Korb approaching hair tied back in a practical knot. His stride was confident, boots solid on the planks. Beside him walked Ivar and Lotho, broader now that his rejuvenation had fully taken hold, his back straight, his stride steady, his face lined by years of habit rather than age. He looked like a man in his early forties, but his eyes carried far more winters.
"Everything is ready," Erik said. "If I stay longer, I will only invent new reasons not to leave."
Lotho snorted quietly. "A man who can reshape steel and minds shouldn't be afraid of a little travel."
"I am not afraid," Erik said mildly. "I am cautious."
Korb grunted in approval.
They walked together along the pier, the sounds of dockworkers loading the final crates filling the air. Lotho watched them with a craftsman's eye, nodding approvingly at the crates marked with Weirsat's sigil.
"You've done well here," Ivar said. "Didn't think I'd see a city built so fast without it falling apart. Most places I've known grow crooked, like trees bent by bad winds."
"Weirstad has had the advantage of planning," Erik replied. "And of people willing to adapt."
Erik looked out at the ships again. "White Harbor will not be Weirstad," he said. "Not at first. But if they see what we can offer, they may choose to change."
Lotho grunted. "People don't like change."
"They like results," Erik said. "And power. And safety. We provide all three."
A dockmaster approached, bowed slightly. "Lord Erik, the ships are ready. Crew is aboard. Cargo secured."
Erik inclined his head. "Thank you."
He turned back to Korb and Lotho. "Keep the workshops running. Continue training apprentices. Record everything. If something breaks, fix it. If something improves, document it."
Korb grunted. "As if I'd have time to do anything else."
Lotho crossed his arms, broad and solid, like a man rooted to the ground. "Go show White Harbor what real steel looks like. And if their smiths think they're better than us, bring back a few of them. I could use the challenge."
Erik allowed himself a small smile.
Then he stepped onto the gangplank, the city of Weirstad behind him and the unknown politics of White Harbor ahead, his holds full, his plans layered, and his patience already tested by how long it had taken him to get here.
This was not a visit.
This was his opening move.